


So Please Don't Stand In My Way

by bangbangbatarang



Category: Marrissey - Fandom, Morrissey (Musician), The Smiths
Genre: First Time, Last Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 18:15:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8725027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bangbangbatarang/pseuds/bangbangbatarang
Summary: God, of course he'd cry during sex. That'd be just like him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just a couple of things:  
> 1\. Morrissey cries. Johnny cries. EVERYONE CRIES IN THIS FIC.  
> 2\. It's well established in the weirdo Marrissey fandom that Johnny calls Moz "baby", once you know this nothing is ever the same again.  
> 3\. There are 18 subtle Smiths/Moz lyric references in here. Find them all, win a prize!
> 
> Anyway here's 13500 words of smut, please enjoy.

 

The cigarette flared in the darkness—a moment where his face, pale, narrow features, was illuminated. The red ember at the end bobbed as he puffed.

“What are you doing here?” said Morrissey.

Johnny was sitting on the front steps, smoking, cross-legged and swathed in shadows. The rest of Manchester was asleep: the sky was inky with night, overcast and quiet. It was four in the morning.

Morrissey was in his dressing gown, standing in the front doorway. The cigarette glowed again, and Morrissey heard the cellophane crackle of a cough.

“I needed to see you,” said Johnny. “Didn't wanna wake you.”

It was cold—not quite cold enough to shiver, but the air hung with a damp, discomforting chill.

“Well, you did. I smelt smoke and thought I might have left the oven on.”

 _How marvellous that would be_ , thought Morrissey. Gassed or burnt to death before he'd finished reading his book.

“Sorry.”

He watched Johnny smoke for a while. Morrissey hadn't actually been asleep: he couldn't seem to nod off, even after he took a sleeping pill, made himself tea, finished reading a book he knew back to front, started a new one. Nothing had worked, and when he heard Johnny's familiar cough—Johnny should really stop smoking, it was a foolish, horrible habit—and smelt cigarette smoke curling through the crack in the window, he'd pulled on some pyjama pants and his gown, and had come downstairs.

Now Johnny was on his doorstep. He'd usually call beforehand, just to check to see that he was welcome. But in the midst of recording sessions for Strangeways, they'd stayed out of each other's way as much as possible: they always ended up bickering, fighting over minute details, manipulating each other in a way that made them hate themselves as much as they were starting to hate each other. It was putting everyone on edge, and it felt like whatever they'd once had was starting to warp and become corrupted as they resented each other more and more.

Morrissey left the door open behind him as he went inside. He heard Johnny scramble to his feet, stomp his cigarette out; the sound of the door closing quietly, moccasins squeaking on the floorboards. The kitchen light flickered as Morrissey flicked it on: he'd have to change it. _Some lights do go out, unfortunately._

“Tea?” asked Morrissey, already knowing the answer.

Johnny shook his head, leaning against the countertop. He'd followed Morrissey into the room, a few paces behind, a lost boy look on his face. Morrissey hadn't seen that look in years: it had been replaced by a cool confidence, and more recently, a worn out vacancy.

“Got anything stronger?”

Morrissey sighed and pointed to the cupboard under the sink.

“You left your gin here,” he said to Johnny's back. “Isn't it a little late to be drinking?”

It was too late for a lot of things, Johnny thought as he unscrewed the bottle and took a sip. It was too late to try to talk this out—that's why he was drinking. He didn't think he'd be able to speak otherwise. _Oh god, what am I doing here?_

Morrissey was staring at him with those appraising, indigo eyes of his. They were bright, piercing, frighteningly beautiful, but all of the humour seemed to be gone from them. There used to be a knowing look that Johnny knew was reflected in his own eyes—they had conversations with only a glance—but now the only thing that matched were the bruised bags from too little sleep, too much thinking. The quick, clever way Morrissey's eyes followed the movement of the bottle to Johnny's lips was sharp. Johnny didn't look away.

Morrissey was annoyed at being on the back-foot. His band mate had been ignoring him all week: Johnny hadn't bothered to call, and barely a word passed between them outside the recording studio aside from a couple of perfunctory, insulting _how are you_ 's when clearly the answer was _terrible_. He was sick of this blank, unnatural stonewalling: sick of trying to get close only to have a cold shoulder turned his way; sick of extending a hand only to have it slapped down with a string of _Not now, Mozzer_ 's, _I'm fine, Mozzer'_ s, _Give me a break, Steven_ 's.

And he was a little nervous: this had caught him off guard, and he hadn't had time to pull his facade back up. No-one got to see him without his facade nowadays. They didn't like what they saw. They never did.

Johnny took another swig and looked at his shoes. He was dressed like he'd been out: jeans, jumper, jacket, his eyelashes crusty with mascara. Johnny never invited him out nowadays, even out of politeness.

“Surely you could get plastered in your own home,” said Morrissey.

Johnny sniffed and kept drinking. Surely Moz knew that he couldn't. Angie couldn't stand his drinking: she worried, so he tried to keep it as secret as he could. He could go round to Mike's, but Mike always had a girl over, and Johnny found himself becoming itchy with boredom very quickly. He could go round to Andy's, but Andy would only drink so much before he'd start scratching his arm, glancing towards his jacket, and Johnny couldn't deal with that shit anymore. He could go to a pub, but after the tenth autograph request or pressing question or compliment he'd start to feel as if he wasn't real.

“I just want to talk to you, Moz,” he tried, but Morrissey snorted.

“I assumed you weren't interested in talking with me anymore.”

Johnny felt the urge to punch Morrissey right in his beautiful jaw. He'd felt that a lot lately: the overwhelming need to shut him up, shut him out, only to be subject to more needling and wheedling. He offered Moz the bottle instead. That might work.

The other man took it, and for a moment it looked like he might have some. He tipped it down the sink.

Morrissey felt a little flicker of— _what, fear?_ —as Johnny sighed behind him. It was something. A reaction.

“I'm trying,” said Johnny. “You're not helping.”

Johnny rubbed his eyes, smudging them black, then folded his jacketed arms around himself. Morrissey hadn't bothered to offer to take Johnny's coat. Johnny used to sling it over chairs, and once or twice he'd forgotten it, and Morrissey would look at it as he ate toast in the morning, and imagine that it was really Johnny sitting with him. It was stupid and pathetic and something he couldn't quite articulate: craving the small, normal pieces of companionship that he'd never had, that he'd most probably never have.

“Moz?”

Morrissey was staring at him, but Johnny got the sense he was thinking of something else, or thinking intently about Johnny himself. It pissed him off when that happened: _I'm right here, you know,_ he wanted to say. _Just fucking talk to me like you used to, you twat._

“Whatever do you want to talk about at this hour, Johnny? Don't I need an appointment to see you?”

Where this casual viscousness had come from, Morrissey didn't know, but it was becoming a habit. He hated knowing that he was being held at arm’s length so much that the claws came out. He'd scratch just to get some attention.

“God, you always do this,” Johnny said, and he sounded more tired than annoyed. He wished Morrissey hadn't gotten rid of that gin.

“I've no idea what you're talking about, Johnny, but if you don't mind, I'm tired.”

Johnny shoved his fists in his pockets.

“So am I, Moz. That's why I'm here.”

They had to talk about this or it would kill him. He wasn't a fool—he could see how Morrissey felt about him: a kind of obsessive, possessive love-lust that was flattering and exhausting, and probably misplaced—but he wasn't cruel. He never brought it up; never rubbed in Moz's face the fact that he had Angie and Morrissey had parts of him. Morrissey had large parts of him, for sure: his undivided attention most of the time, his respect, his love—

That was making things difficult. Loving Morrissey was no problem: alright, it was hard when Moz could be so tricky and closed-off most of the time, so wrapped up in himself and his thoughts, and many of the things he did tended to grate, and now Johnny's nerves were thin with dealing with it for so long.

But being in love with him was something that Johnny had just recently become aware of. There'd always been an emotion he couldn't quite identify—a kind of reverence underscored by frustration, like he should be the first to know what Moz thought of something: the first to know his feelings; the only one to be privy to the workings of his heart and mind. So when Johnny had started dabbling with other bands, it felt slightly like infidelity: not to The Smiths, but to his partnership with Morrissey. And when Morrissey had bristled with offence, had written the lyrics to “I Won't Share You”, and there'd been a few raised eyebrows, Johnny had felt a crippling guilt that confused him.

He was mad at Morrissey for wanting Johnny all to himself, but then he wanted to have Morrissey all to himself too, didn’t he? That's when the penny dropped, and he got so drunk he crashed his car, and wished that maybe he had hurt himself more when he realised that his last thought before hitting the brick wall wasn't about his wife, but about his best friend.

He couldn't help it, any more than he could help loving Angie, and that frightened him. It wasn't just lust, though there was bucket-loads of that: the kind that made him ill with guilt, made him drink to drown it out, and still made him want to grab Moz every time he shot him a come-hither stare across the stage. _I bloody well will come-hither if I want_ he'd think, following Morrissey's hovering hand and almost screwing up the chord progression for “Hand in Glove” when Moz whipped away again, _You beautiful bastard, I'll come-hither a hundred times with you in mind_. And Moz looked at him like that even when there was no reason to, when they weren’t play acting as a gay band—god, he'd been a little idiot when he said that, and Moz had gone along with it with a fervour that made Mike and Andy shake their heads, tease in a friendly way that still belied their knowledge that this wasn't an act, Morrissey was head over heels.

Not that it wasn’t obvious to Johnny: Morrissey wrote _JOHNNY & MOZ FOREVER_ on the wall of the Hacienda in pen once, and Johnny didn't notice until he saw a photo of them together, the heart just out of frame. The heart had been scrubbed off when Johnny went back to see if it was still there.

Even Angie quietly mentioned the obvious problem that was brewing once, when she saw Moz flinch out of the corner of her eye when Johnny kissed her. _He's in love with you, Johnny_ , she said that night as they lay in bed together, and Johnny didn't argue. _I know,_ he said, not telling her that it made him feel dread about the prospect of hurting him, or hurting her; not being about to bear to see either of them hurt. _He can't help it._

Maybe Johnny didn't help matters for a long time, for either of them: hugging Moz whenever possible, wanting an excuse to get close, to see his face light up with a smile. And when he heard Morrissey crying, sobbing as the rest of them slept in a New York hotel room, Johnny had wandered over, sitting at the end of the bed, reminding Morrissey of his genius—his incredible, glimmering mind—and his warm heart, speaking gently as if to a child and wanting more than anything to crawl into bed with Moz and make it all better. He fell asleep, curled up next to Morrissey’s feet, thinking about what might have happened if he'd taken Morrissey in his arms and held him until the tears dried, then moved onto something more, tried to make him smile...

It didn't bear thinking about, but Moz had been so grateful the next morning that he squeezed Johnny's hand when no-one was looking, and Johnny had just thought _uh-oh_.

But 1986 had been hard, almost impossibly so, and Johnny grew sick with panic in the weeks following _The Queen Is Dead_. It wasn't how he wanted it to sound, and he didn't know why he couldn't get it right. He thought that thought over and over, sitting in the same chair all day long, staring out the window and only moving when he ran to the bathroom to throw up.

Moz had come to visit eventually; brought Angie flowers and Johnny some cheese sandwiches. He apologised for “Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others”, and Johnny had yelled at him: _you should be sorry, why the hell did you do that to me? Was that the best you could do?_ And Moz had been so sorry about it, spent all day trying to talk him round, trying to get him to eat and sniffing as Johnny smoked. Johnny got over it eventually, but things had changed between them.

Not even a year later, and it was all falling apart. It took so little for Johnny to get angry nowadays: he was stressed and depressed, and Moz was dancing around it, making things harder by being stoic and moody, playing nice or smothering him in turn, and then pulling away when Johnny needed him. It made Johnny want to slap him silly.

“What do you want to talk about?” Morrissey asked wearily, as if the very prospect of talking was burdensome. It wasn't; he was just worried about what Johnny might want to talk about in the middle if the night. He had a feeling for what might be on Johnny's mind.

“I think... I think I need a break,” Johnny said. “It's getting a bit much at the moment.”

Morrissey leant against the sink, trying to appear relaxed and feeling his pulse jump through the roof. He knew this day would come, of course: everyone he cared about would leave him when they'd tired of him. That was just the way of things: his personal curse. He was repellent, and perhaps if people did him the favour of not getting close in the first place this wouldn't hurt so much.

“You want to break up The Smiths?” he asked, and didn’t dare to look at Johnny.

 _Maybe,_ thought Johnny. _That might be the only option now._

“I just need a break, Moz. I can't keep doing this.”

Morrissey rolled his eyes, trying to hide the shake in his voice.

“You're the one who wanted to do an album a year. You set this pace, Johnny.”

That was true, but now it was burning Johnny out. Add to that the little issue of being in love with two diametrically opposite people in equal measure, and Johnny felt like he was going mad. He knew this was going to end badly, with someone heartbroken, or worse, actually hurt—he'd never thought of dying much, but it kept popping up as an option, a way to get out—and right now Johnny wanted to be the one who was comforted. He wanted Moz to lay him down and tell him it was going to be alright.

 _Where the hell did that thought come from?_ That's not why he came around here.

 _Yes it was_ , he thought, even if he didn't want to acknowledge it. He came here because there was no one else he'd rather talk to; no-one else who could know how this felt.

Moz was looking at him, worried. He chewed his fingernail, shuffled his feet, and he was back to being Steven, shy and hopeless, with a burning desire to get out of himself, become something bigger, memorable. He felt himself fading, his palms starting to sweat: he wasn't just losing Johnny—who he'd never fully, truly had a claim to in the first place, close but not quite—he was losing his life raft. He was losing his life.

“I need this, Johnny,” he said. “I need you.”

Morrissey wanted to beg. He wanted to promise that he'd be good, that he'd try to be kind like he once was. He didn't mean to get mean: he just got scared when he felt Johnny slipping away from him. He wanted to reach out and grab him, hold him by the shoulders and apologise for being so unfair, for being such a terrible friend. He wanted to tell Johnny that he loved him and that there was no-one else in the world that he wanted by his side, shaking him until he saw sense or saw stars, something.

This wasn't how it was supposed to end. It was supposed to be forever.

Johnny shook his head.

“You don't.”

“Don't tell me how I feel—” Morrissey started to stutter out, and Johnny shook his head again, taking a step into Morrissey’s personal space.

“You don't just need me,” Johnny said quickly, not accusatory but simply stating facts. Whatever else the gin took away from him, at least it gave him courage. “You want me.”

That was the shameful, humanising truth. But that was the difference between celibacy and asexuality: the former was self-imposed. Morrissey had urges: he had so many that it would take hours to list, and they were all related to Johnny Marr. He wanted this man with every twisted, imperfect fibre of his being: wanted to mesh in every way, body as well as mind and soul; wanted them to go from Venn diagram to perfect circle. He had everything he'd ever wanted—ever dreamed of wanting—except all of Johnny Marr. And that was making him miserable, had been crushing him slowly even as their star rose. From up here, he could see more clearly how much he was missing, and now he was about to plummet back to earth.

“I can stop,” Morrissey said, and he was surprised by how calm he sounded. He felt ill; stuck in the headlights and unable to move as the truth sped towards him. He was about to have his heart irreparably broken. This was probably going to kill him.

Johnny smiled sadly.

“No, you can't.”

“I can try.”

That was a lie, and a miserable one at that. He'd never been able to stop now that he'd started: he'd started resenting Johnny for being so lovable, for making him obsess, for being the one person that he truly wanted that he could never have.

Johnny took a deep breath, and Morrissey braced himself for the break.

“Well, I can't keep trying.”

Morrissey looked at him, the words hitting him slowly. Johnny's face was pinched, as if he were in pain.

“What are you saying?”

Johnny took another step forward. They were very close now, sharing air. They'd never shied away from being close—they weren't touchy feely, but their shoulders would bump, their elbows would brush, and Morrissey always brushed it off as platonic, warm but dry. To Morrissey, this seemed to have more purpose, some ulterior intent behind it other than simply trying to keep him from running away. This was unexpected. _Could it be that... No. Stop thinking like that, Steven. That's stupid._

But Morrissey felt a flicker of something again, deep in his belly. It was fear, but the exhilarating kind. He hadn't felt it for so long that it was unfamiliar. It was the fear that came with the potential for touch; the stripping back of his inhibitions and the possibilities of the flesh laying ready before him. It was something he shied from since it made him feel out of control, ugly and awkward.

And now Johnny was giving him that feeling. Perhaps he was dreaming; or maybe Johnny was messing with him. That'd be unlike him, though: Johnny's eyes were serious, even a little scared. _What on earth was going on?_ Why did Johnny's eyes keep drifting down to his mouth—

Johnny's heart was trying to crawl out of his throat. He felt very light headed, but his legs felt heavy; slowly inching closer, magnetised by want. He hadn't realised how much he wanted to do this: he'd thought he was just a little fucked up, had been superimposing feelings out of kindness, or refracting them because _you don't just get to be loved by Morrissey, you become everything to him and he becomes everything to you_.

“Johnny,” said Morrissey slowly. “What are you saying?”

Words failed him. Words had never been Johnny's strong suit: they always formed a neat, serviceable barrier between himself and his feelings. He was better when he did rather than said, let actions speak for themselves.

So that's what he did: rocked forward on his toes, the tip of his nose brushing Morrissey's. His friend sighed, his face so close that Johnny could feel his breath on his face. He wasn't quite there yet: he was still trying to summon the courage and to circumvent the guilt, thinking _what am I doing?_

But then Morrissey's eyes fluttered closed and it was easy, because Morrissey leaned his face forward: that final, tiny bit of space replaced by the soft press of lips on lips, the sweet damp as Morrissey's mouth opened slightly.

 _Oh god:_ This was really happening. After all this time he'd bit the bullet and kissed Steven Morrissey, not in the back of his car, not under an iron bridge—little messages directed at him, _kiss me kiss me kiss me_ —but in Mozzer's kitchen in the middle of the night. And it was slow, a tiny bit awkward as Moz tried to keep up, rusty but willing, his mouth tasting of toothpaste. Johnny hoped that the cigarettes he'd chained on the front porch didn’t taste any worse than the gin he'd just swilled, but Moz seemed not to care, the gentle press of his lips telling Johnny all he needed to know.

He wasn't sure he could do more than this: it was one thing to kiss this man, and another thing to contemplate what might come after. Morrissey's celibacy had always helped in that way: Johnny couldn't want someone who didn't want anyone. It was all daydreaming, guilt-inducing thoughts of what might be, what could never be.

 _But he wants me_ , he thought, knowing it in the way Morrissey's hands were cupping his face, and the tenderness with which his lips moved in time with his own was oceanic, enormous, crushingly sweet. Hungry but careful, like he was worried it would end.

 _He's kissing me_ , Morrissey thought, as Johnny tilted his face around cautiously, a shaky hand coming to rest on his hip. _Johnny Marr is kissing me_. He was dizzy with the desire to speed things up: five years was compressed into seconds, and there was so much time to make up for. _He's kissing me. How absurd_.

That thought made him pull back, lips tingling and his head swimming. He just had to check that this was real. Johnny stared at him, dark hair falling in his eyes, then leaned in again, following almost unconsciously.

“Don't,” said Morrissey.

Johnny's hand dropped from its place on Morrissey's hip, and that lost boy look was back. He opened his mouth to say something, but Morrissey cut him off.

“Don't start something,” Morrissey said, suddenly brave, insistent that this wouldn't be some funny joke at his expense, “if you're not going to finish it.”

And there it was: the turning point where Johnny had to face whether he was going to do this—whether they were going to do this. This wasn't something he could half-arse, but he never did things by halves. He didn't just jump off cliffs: he threw himself off after taking a run-up.

Johnny knew now what he was going to do. It didn't seem so abstract in his mind: they wanted each other, and that transcended gender, friendship, the fact that Johnny was married. This was something they had to do at least once. They'd done everything else they could do to be close. He didn't need a textbook to know what came next; didn't need a map to know which direction this was supposed to go. _Down, down together_.

He set his jaw and grabbed Morrissey by the waist, and he saw Morrissey's eyes go wide before he kissed him again, open-mouthed now with unbridled desire that made Morrissey emit a desperate sound, the kind of noise that had the hairs on the back of Johnny's neck standing up. Morrissey was pulling him in, hands in his hair, the stubble on his chin scratching against Johnny's face, body pressing as close as could be with clothes in the way, their legs overlapping and their groins pressing together.

A moan—was it him?—vibrated through him, and Johnny pressed in again, hands clutching desperately as they careered beyond the point of turning back. The blood in his head was flowing south, prickling through his skin as he swept his tongue into that waiting mouth, tracing the inside of Morrissey's lips.

It was like being taken over by music, a clattering rush where he moved instinctively, knowing what to do—god, this was only kissing, Morrissey was human, not some fey creature as he'd have everyone believe. He wasn't alabaster: he was a man. Maybe that's why this was so frighteningly easy.

They'd always been able to read each other, fit together like their brains were made with each other's in mind. This was the missing piece, and why was Morrissey surprised that it came so naturally, Johnny's tongue moving with supernatural ease against his teeth—Moz shivered at that, a tingle in his spine where it met the sink. _Kitchen sink dramas had never been quite like this_.

Morrissey rolled his hips, prompted by the need for more, in a way that had Johnny pulling backwards with his arms still around Morrissey's narrow waist, muttering “Upstairs” and “Somewhere else” and “Not here” in between kisses.

It wasn't quite _take me to the haven of your bed_ , but for the first time in his life Morrissey didn't want poeticisms or witticisms, he wanted Johnny's hands on him, he wanted—

“Yes.”

They crab walked to the bedroom like that, bumping against the walls. Johnny almost gave up: thought about pulling them both to the ground and doing whatever they could then and there—he was pulling Morrissey's dressing gown off his shoulders, the fabric slipping slowly to reveal a collarbone that Johnny had once dreamt about running his tongue over, nipping it and leaving it marked with bruises—but this wasn't a dream, and even though his mouth was latched at the base of Morrissey's throat, his palms pressed against ribs, running up and down Morrissey's sides, that wasn't enough.

“Johnny,” Morrissey whispered, his voice croaky as Johnny's mouth wandered over the bared skin of his shoulders. “Bed.”

Johnny's face told Morrissey all he need to know: reckless, logic gone, and running on pure want. And it was want for him, a man who thought he'd never inspire desire in anyone. He thought he'd been imagining that look in his periphery when he spun on stage, when the sun hit Johnny's sunglasses right and Morrissey knew he was being looked at. But now he was seeing it up close, his back pressed against the wall of the hallway, Johnny's golden eyes gazing up at him. It made him gasp—no, he gasped when Johnny, not breaking eye contact, pulled the dressing gown off entirely, letting it fall to the floor.

“I was trying to tell you that I want you, too,” Johnny said.

Someone was going to have to take charge, so Morrissey grabbed Johnny's hand and pulled him upstairs.

The moon had come out from behind the clouds, and Morrissey's bedroom was cast in bluish light. They stumbled in, Johnny reaching out again like he was adrift without his hands on Morrissey's skin. It was angry, full of pent up frustration that had almost snapped them both in two from how tense it was getting, and Johnny's mouth was hot and frantic like his hands. He'd dropped his jacket somewhere along the way, and now he was kicking off his shoes, trying to keep one hand on Moz at all times. Morrissey's skin was smooth, the expanse of his back raised in goose bumps as Johnny touched him, kicking the door closed behind him for good measure.

He had to keep going—there was a bubble of panic blooming in his chest, and Morrissey grabbed his wrists gently just as Johnny was about to wrench his jumper over his head.

“You're shaking,” Morrissey said, quietly bemused, and Johnny looked away then. He looked at the room—he didn't spend as much time here as he had in Morrissey's childhood home. This room was new, sparse and ordered. The sheets were rumpled with sleep, and Johnny imagined himself, naked, shining with sweat, in the middle of the bedding. This all seemed a little more difficult now that he stopped.

 _No no no_. He was supposed to get this out of his system before it ate him alive.

“I'm sorry,” Johnny said.

Morrissey knew what was going on—could see the gears shifting in Johnny's head, the realisation settling in that this was wrong, even though it felt right. It was right on a level beyond their control, beyond the bounds of everything they knew: they'd been making their way here all their lives, to this make or break moment. But Johnny was a good man. Johnny loved his wife, even if—

“I love you,” Morrissey said before he could stop himself, trying to hold on to the moment before it slipped out of his grasp, before Johnny came to his senses and started thinking on a normal wavelength. It was selfish. He was selfish, he knew, but he needed this.

Johnny let his head fall forward, and he felt Morrissey's thin arms wrap around him. He buried his face in the soft skin where neck met shoulder and breathed, his teeth gritted. He'd gone and fucked this up.

“I know. I'm sorry,” he muttered, and he was. There was only going to be one shot at this, in the predawn hours of an average day. Later he would go home and try his best to believe that this had never happened. That was the only way this could happen; the only way he could go on.

“Please stop thinking,” whispered Morrissey back, his mouth pressed against Johnny's cheek, placing fluttering kisses on the side of his face, against his ear, rubbing circles in the small of his back.

“Stop me," Johnny said. "You have to stop me.”

Morrissey wasn't sure if that meant stopping this from going further, or stopping Johnny from thinking about what would happen in the light of day. He chose the latter, kissing the other man gently but firmly: _look at me, look at me, there's only me_.

Johnny let himself be undressed, jumper joining the shoes, shirt adding to the pile. He lifted his arms as if in a trance, letting his hands drop once his chest was bare, his fingers running through Morrissey's hair.

“Moz,” he muttered, trying to get back to where he was before and marvelling in the silkiness of Morrissey's hair, “I need you to touch me.”

There was nothing Moz wanted to do more, but something kept drawing his mind back: it was the way that Johnny demanded it, like he was self-destructing and wanted to be pushed over the edge. Morrissey wasn't going to tip him, though. As much as it would help to, he couldn't be responsible for that.

He had to be sure, or Johnny would hate him. Johnny could say no whenever he wanted, might flinch away even as they went all the way: might figure that this wasn't for him, touching, feeling, being inside another man. Morrissey’s heart—and to be fair, his cock—was telling him to do one thing, to drag Johnny to bed and distract him from thinking about the enormity of the situation, but his head knew that it wouldn't be the same. He wouldn't really have Johnny that way: he'd have sex but not love. He wanted all of Johnny Marr.

“Tell me you're certain about this. Tell me that you want this—”

“I want this, Moz, I want you so bad.”

“As much as I do? Because this isn't just a whim for me, Johnny. This isn't a way to burn things down. This is what I've always wanted, but it'll only be right if you want me as much as I want you.”

Johnny looked up uncertainly. He was hoping that Moz wouldn't do this: back him into a corner and tell him to put all of himself into it. He'd hoped that hormones, lust, adrenaline would be enough. Nothing was ever enough for Morrissey, and Johnny was fearful that if he gave him everything he'd lose himself. But no, this was about finding himself, pure, stripped bare, free.

“I've never wanted to be with a man before,” Johnny said, a little hysterically. “I thought I might be gay—”

Morrissey laughed hoarsely.

“You're not.”

He wasn't. Johnny only felt this level of attraction twice in his life: once for a woman, now his wife, and now for a man, his partner, muse, and equal.

“I think I’ve wanted you since the moment I met you, Morrissey. I just didn’t know what to do before now.”

“I’m glad you finally figured it out,” Morrissey said softly. “I was scared you never would.”

“We should have done this years ago,” Johnny said. “We could have done this before things got so messy.”

If only they had. So much would be different: maybe Morrissey wouldn't have written so well, what with the well of pining that never ran dry that he had now, but at least he wouldn't have wanted to die so much of the time.

“Johnny,” he said, tracing a finger along the bare chest before him and being rewarded with a shiver. “I feel like we've been making love without touching all along.”

It had been something close to carnal at times, the way their thoughts twisted together: the closest thing to a union that Morrissey had felt. That was what their music was: the melding of minds, the prowess of words and deftly assembled chords, a perfect give and take between them, freeing them from their small, mortal selves and bringing them to a higher level. To touch would take them full circle, close the loop. They'd finally be intact.

“I feel the same, love,” Johnny said, a smile slowly spreading on his face. He was treading carefully: this meant too much. “But I want everything now.”

Johnny took a breath. He wanted to tell Morrissey that he loved him, but Morrissey was smiling so hard that the words caught in Johnny’s throat. So he kissed him again, arms slung over Morrissey's shoulders, standing on the tips of his toes as Morrissey groaned softly with want.

They flopped on the bed like that: caught up in each other's limbs, faces pressed together. It wasn't as frantic, but it was still hungry, Morrissey feeling himself led on by the ache inside him, but feeling the warmth of Johnny's skin against his, the way his fingers stroked his neck and gently turned his face to kiss more deeply, as Morrissey's hands clutched at hips that had slowly begun to rock to meet his own.

Moz was good at kissing: stupidly good now that the nerves were gone. _That bloody tongue of his_ , Johnny thought as Morrissey darted the tip inside, moving along Johnny’s teeth as if painting them, _is going to be the death of me_. How Johnny had survived seeing Morrissey’s tongue do that very thing to his own teeth, his own lips, the corner of his mouth a hundred times before now, he’d never know. It was indecent and enticing and possibly the most salacious thing ever to see Morrissey lick his lips when he was pretending to be thoughtful, but was really just trying to put interviewers off, and Johnny would have told him to stop, said _you’re being too fucking sexual_ , had it not been such a turn on to watch. And now Morrissey was kissing him with that tongue, and _whatever the hell he just did_ —some sort of flick followed by a lave— _he’d better do that again_.

Morrissey was drawing out all stops, and it seemed to be working. His lips were wet and stinging, and Johnny was sighing, his heart pounding through his chest. _Finally._ Finally, this was really happening, and he couldn’t be happier about it. He was stiffening by the second, and Johnny was too: _That’s what I’m doing to him. That’s how much he wants me_. He slid a hand between them, tugging at Johnny’s fly, hoping it wasn’t too soon to try that.

Johnny slipped back on his knees and off the bed, and Morrissey made to grab for him again.

“Give us a second, will you?” Johnny said and smiled.

Morrissey watched as he unbuttoned his jeans, let them drop to the floor along with his underwear. He felt a shudder go through him at the sight: Johnny's small frame— _he’s so short_ , not as short when they met and Morrissey was astounded by the energy that this small, utterly wonderful man buzzed with, but still half a head shorter than Morrissey was—had grown from stovepipe post-adolescence to lean, muscled, masculine. He let his eyes drift down over the planes of Johnny’s thin chest, over his belly to the tip of the trail of black hair that ran down between his legs. His cock was thin, but long like his fingers—exactly as Morrissey had imagined it might be, and hadn’t he just imagined it _that many times_ —and it was curving upwards, hard with the promise of touch.

Johnny stilled, the tiniest bit of shyness underlying his confidence, and Morrissey propped himself up on his elbows.

“You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen,” he said quietly, because Johnny was. It wasn't just lust clouding his senses, making him feel complimentary: Johnny Marr was achingly pretty to him—never photogenic, always looking underfed and a little sallow—but his lined-eyes and messy black hair served as an enticing, threatening cool, those delicate elfin features and whippet thin form converging to make a man that Morrissey could only dream of.

Johnny laughed, scratching his nose self-consciously, looking out from behind a dark curtain of hair.

“Not like you, though,” Johnny said, gazing at Morrissey, sprawled in his pyjama pants, hair ruffled and eyes wild.

Morrissey had always been boyishly good-looking—it sometimes hurt to look at him—but something had changed in him recently. It must have been eating more, dancing, growing into his elbows and legs, because Morrissey was an Adonis: he might as well have been made from marble, chiselled and gorgeous, and how he couldn't see that he was dangerously handsome had never stopped surprising Johnny.

“Hush,” said Morrissey, his cheeks growing a little pink, his hands drifting to the waistband of his pants. Johnny climbed back onto the mattress beside him, stopped him, pulling them off himself and brushing a hand over Morrissey's hip, over the place where muscle and bone met and stood out sharply. Johnny pressed a kiss there; fleeting, nervous, unfamiliar.

“Wish you knew what you look like right now.”

Morrissey chuckled and rolled his eyes.

“Quite the mess, I imagine.”

Maybe, but it was a spectacular mess. Morrissey’s lips were red from kissing, his hair tangled, a five o’clock shadow on his chin. He looked so honest-to-god happy that Johnny let his lips ghost along Morrissey’s belly just to feel the tremble of muscles under his mouth.

“You're bloody perfect, Mozzer.”

Morrissey's cock was hard, pointing towards his belly button—and of course it would be large, not quite as long as Johnny's own but thicker. Johnny traced a finger up its length, curiously, and Morrissey's eyes fluttered closed, his mouth parting, a soft hiss escaping that sounded like “Yes”.

He let his fingers close around Morrissey’s length. It was strange to do this—he’d never seen another man, let alone touched one—but Morrissey had been giving him permission all along. In the palm of your hand. It was hot, velvety, and Johnny felt Morrissey hardening as he pulled a few times. Morrissey sighed, brow furrowing. He was exquisite.

He was so lucky that he was the one to do this: Johnny knew Morrissey had been with people in the past—women, maybe men—but now, at his most beautiful and naked, he was all Johnny's. When Morrissey wrote _MARRY ME_ on his chest, tore his shirt open for the world see his heart on his sleeve, Johnny knew it was for him, _M.A.R.R._ , and when he wrote _INIATE ME_ on his perfect torso, Johnny couldn't think straight, because that was another challenge directed at him that he didn't accept. _Now I will_ , he thought, heat growing in his belly. This would be their last rite of passage together.

He slunk between Morrissey's legs, and they finally touched, nose to toes, no clothes in the way to complicate things, and it seemed as if their bodies sizzled with friction. Morrissey bent a knee, wrapping it around the back of Johnny's thighs to bring him closer as their cocks rubbed together, moaning into Johnny's mouth. Johnny's cock felt silky, scorching, so hard that it caused Morrissey to arch up against it, trying to seek more contact. Their instincts took over, Johnny's hips grinding down, pushing Moz into the mattress as he canted his hips to thrust, but even though rubbing against each other was gnawingly good, they both needed more.

“I want to—” Johnny groaned as Morrissey's hand slipped over his hips, grabbing Johnny's arse before kissing him, teeth bared below his pierced ear. _Now that was just ridiculous_ , brazen and bold like he'd never thought Moz would be. He liked it. “I want to be inside you, baby.”

Even as he trembled at the idea of this really happening, Morrissey couldn't help but smile at the term of endearment: it was sweet, and he wondered how far gone Johnny was with lust. From the look on his face, he was in the same place as Moz was: a little crazed, craving contact.

Johnny's pupils were dark, drinking him in as Morrissey rolled to open the bedside table drawer. He kept... Stuff on hand in case he ever needed it. Not that he had much use for it throughout the years. Not much anyway: he'd once used a little bit of lubricant to touch himself, Johnny's teared diamond necklace—yes, he stole it for a week, wearing it looped through his belt loop in a way that made Johnny bite his lip with what Moz hoped was knowing but was probably just indulgence—around his neck, one finger inside himself and an image of Johnny playing guitar in his mind’s eye. It had left him feeling shaken and filthy, but now he was about to have the real thing.

Johnny wasn't quite sure what to do, and he knew his face was giving that away as he knelt on the bed. Morrissey placed the bottle on the table before rolling onto his back again.

“Are you alright?” Morrissey asked.

“Hmm,” Johnny murmured, one hand stroking Morrissey's knee. “A little overwhelmed.”

This was like losing his virginity all over again. At least it was him doing the screwing: the thought of having Morrissey inside him made him shiver. It might be nice—surrendering all control, letting himself go, now that he thought of it, _maybe that would be good_ —but he wasn't sure he could deviate that far from what he knew all at once. This was still basically the same: foreplay, getting things going, before the eventual in and out. It just so happened that the person he was successfully turning on also had a cock, but at least Morrissey was responding to everything like Johnny was a genius.

And who was he kidding: Johnny was always going to be the one on top. Everything about Morrissey said, _fuck me, but please be nice about it, please don't break me_ , even if Moz seemed to be swinging between completely sex-starved and vaguely composed right now, just as desperate as Johnny felt.

Moz smiled nervously, linking their fingers together.

“I'm not an expert at this either, Johnny. I think we can make it work, though.”

“Has anyone ever...” Johnny started, then found himself unsure of whether he wanted to know the details of Morrissey’s love life.

Morrissey bit his lip. Never this. He’d never been this exposed, this close to someone. Every time he'd done something sexual he always found himself sort of bored, out of his own body and thinking about something else.

He must be doing that now, just a little bit. Morrissey swallowed a gasp as Johnny dipped his head to suck gently on Morrissey's pinkie finger, nuzzling at his palm, kissing his hand—not in a way that was dirty, but comforting. _Talk to me_.

“I never wanted to before you came along,” Morrissey said eventually.

Johnny sighed, stroking the inside of Moz's wrist. How had no-one gotten a leg over this man in twenty-seven years? He was utterly beautiful, his eyebrows drawn together, teeth on his lip as he watched Johnny process that information. Johnny thought for a moment. It was because Moz wanted him to be the first. He smiled.

“The pleasure, the privilege is mine.”

Morrissey grinned back.

“It's all for you, Johnny. It's always been yours.”

Johnny got the sense that Morrissey was talking about his heart, not just the song. Both had always been his. What did he do to deserve everything?

“I wish I knew exactly how to do this though, Mozzer. Just to make it nice,” he said, resting his cheek on Morrissey's palm. “For both of us.”

“It's nice, Johnny. And I've read a few books,” Morrissey said, then looked embarrassed. Not pornographic ones: it was literature. Alright, maybe they were pornographic novels. He'd been curious, that was all.

Johnny smiled, watching Morrissey turn a shade of pink. _How sweet_.

“Can always count on you to know things, love. What's first?”

Morrissey pulled Johnny down again, eyes sparkling, kissing him and taking his cock in one, languidly moving hand.

“What if...” Morrissey said, and he was astounded that the words coming from his mouth were so frank, so unlike what he'd say in any other circumstance. “Let me put my mouth on you, Johnny. I'd like to do that.”

Morrissey's hand was gentle but certain, tugging Johnny back to rock-hardness again. Johnny kissed him roughly, tongue darting and tangling with Morrissey's own as he moaned, sweat beginning to bead on his brow as he nodded.

Morrissey scooted down the bed, eyes still on Johnny's face and wrist still rolling. The expression on Johnny's face was all the encouragement he could ever need. Morrissey hadn't had much practice at this, but with Johnny's fingers curled in his quiff, he licked the tip of Johnny's red, throbbing cock with the tip of his tongue. Johnny gasped, his hips twitching of their own accord.

“Is that alright?” Morrissey asked.

Johnny didn’t answer him: he was staring at Morrissey’s lips as they brushed against the head of his cock. That was enough of an answer, so Morrissey pressed wet kisses down Johnny’s length, then worked his way back up, tongue swirling as if he was writing his own name on Johnny’s cock.

“Fffffffucking hell,” Johnny muttered, petting Morrissey’s hair, his forearm flung over his eyes. “You’re a bloody genius.”

This was one way to get him chatty: Johnny couldn’t even begin to express how clever Morrissey’s mouth was, lips and tongue and just a touch of teeth. And then Morrissey swallowed him whole, taking him into the wet heat of his mouth.

“Moz,” Johnny cried, nails scraping against Morrissey’s scalp, head thrown back against the pillows. “Oh my god, Mozzer.”

It was exciting that he was responsible for this: the number of times Morrissey had imagined dropping to his knees as Johnny strummed his guitar was ridiculous, and he wished he'd been as brave as Bowie had been with Mick Ronson. Instead he'd flail across the stage, trying to wrench the desire from his body, growling and wailing and giving the power to the words he was singing: words with Johnny Marr in mind, about all the times they'd been in Johnny's car late at night and he had wondered what would happen if he turned and asked if he could touch him, just once.

He didn't have to wonder now, Johnny sliding against his tongue, moaning with pleasure in a way that had him moaning back, his throat vibrating in a way that had Johnny's head thrashing, his fingers tightening of their own accord.

“Moz Moz Moz Moz Moz,” Johnny said, his voice cracking, “Baby, you feel amazing.”

Johnny knew he'd have to stop Morrissey before he came from this alone, but each time Morrissey's wondrous, crafty mouth plunged back down, then drew back with lips tight against Johnny's skin, he lost his train of thought. This was the most exceptional sensation he could conceive of: tendrils of pleasure creeping down his spine, curling his toes and tightening every muscle in his body. He'd fantasised about this ever since he first heard Morrissey sing—it really had been that long, a mental image tucked in the back of his mind. This was a hundred times better than he could have imagined: Morrissey humming around him, palm cupping his balls.

He came to his senses before he came—if he crested now he'd probably fall asleep to waylay the onslaught of emotions that would rush in afterwards. He tugged Morrissey's hair gently, and the other man rested his face on the sharp edge of Johnny's hip. Morrissey quirked an eyebrow, and smirked with self-satisfaction.

“Problem?” he said, his eyes glinting.

 _He’s bloody loving this,_ Johnny thought.

“You don't quit that, and it’ll be all over before we've gotten to the good part.”

“What did you want? Say the word and I’ll do it.”

Johnny tugged Morrissey up the bed to kiss him, then rolled him onto his side, spooning against him and reaching for the bottle on the nightstand.

“Have you,” he croaked, his cock brushing against Morrissey's arse.

He had to still himself: the desire to roll Morrissey onto his stomach, spread him open and push inside, was rattling around his head. Johnny didn't want to hurt him, so he tried to smother the caged animal that was clawing inside his chest. The image was a powerful one, though: the thought of breaching Morrissey's body had his mouth watering, his nerves tingling, his cock aching. The thought of imprinting himself on this beautiful man, taking him like the man he was, screwing him into the sheets until he was a hysterical puddle, made Johnny mad with possibility.

But knew what he really wanted—not just a quick, aggressive fuck, but an unrestrained coupling, that meant something, _everything_ —even if he wasn't quite sure of the logistics and mechanics of getting it. And he was going to take his time getting them both there, giving Moz the sensations he deserved, if he could just slow down.

“Tell me what to do now, Moz.”

“I need you to... Start with your fingers.”

Johnny nodded. That was a step he could take. _I’m not bad with my fingers,_ he thought, smiling against Morrissey's neck as he squeezed the gel on his fingertips, slicked all the way down to his third knuckle.

Morrissey watched Johnny's hand disappear from sight, then felt his other hand close around his cock, tugging gently as the cool fingertip of his right hand— _oh god, the one that knew how to make incredible sounds come from strings as if it were as easy as walking_ —slid down between his legs.

“Talk to me,” Johnny whispered against his neck, his teeth occasionally scraping sharply against the skin to nibble. “Want you to tell me when it feels good.”

“Yes,” Morrissey said back, the tip of Johnny's finger pressing, twirling against the rim of his skin. “That feels... Very good.”

It did: far too sensitive and a tad ticklish. He was glad that he bathed so diligently, or else this might have been embarrassing.

Johnny kept his finger there, moving in tiny spirals until Morrissey pushed back against him, his breath shuddering. Johnny’s finger dipped inside easily then, and Johnny felt the push and tug of muscles as he inched further in, first knuckle sliding easily, the second with a little more resistance.

Morrissey clenched his jaw. It was strange, the sensation that came with this violation of his body—a good kind of strange, though, as if the room was turning upside down, and he was turning inside out. There was a burning, stretching feeling as his body got used to having Johnny's long finger buried inside.

“Moz?”

“Sorry. That’s good.”

Encouraged, Johnny drew his finger back, thrusting it at snail-pace, working his other hand on Morrissey’s cock in time.

“That's... Oh god Johnny, keep doing that,” Morrissey said, his voice barely audible, shaking with need. “Please keep doing that.”

He dipped in a few more times, pressing deeper each time until Morrissey felt relaxed, felt ready— _begged_ —for more. Johnny aligned his pointer and middle fingers, and it was tougher this time, Morrissey's teeth gritting with the pressure. Johnny felt him tense under his touch, and slowly stilled both his hands.

“Baby, I can stop.”

Morrissey shook his head violently.

“Don't you dare, John Maher.”

Johnny chuckled, easing two knuckles in and feeling Morrissey's body clench around him.

“Don’t you dare call me that again.”

“Or what?”

Morrissey’s voice was rough, blunted by the short-circuiting of his brain as Johnny’s fingers moved inside him.

“Or else I’ll fuck the cheek right out of you,” Johnny said, fingers crooking slightly as he moved them.

“Oh god,” Morrissey shot back, “would you, please?”

Johnny sped up the movement of his hand, thrusting his fingers a little rougher until he hit something that had Morrissey whimpering with pleasure.

“That’s the plan, love, but I think you need a little more of this.”

Morrissey's hips swung back to meet the movement every time Johnny hit that point inside: he could see Morrissey’s hands balled in the sheets as the rock of his hips became more erratic, the noises he made growing louder and needier by the second.

“Please, Johnny,” Morrissey moaned, rolling his hips back against Johnny’s cock, and it took all the self-control that Johnny had to not simply start fucking him right that second.

“Soon, baby. I'll give it to you really soon.”

Morrissey felt that spot—no doubt his prostate—being brushed again, and it was as if his nerves were lighting up, sparking automatic movements and causing words to spill from his mouth.

“Yes, that's so nice, oh Johnny, that feels so good.”

“Think you're ready for me, Mozzer?”

Morrissey nodded, groaning at the double-time motion of Johnny's hand, then at the emptiness as those fingers were taken away. He started to protest about it, but Johnny rolled him onto his stomach and spread his legs.

“You'll be nice and full soon, love, don't worry about that.”

God, spread out and open like this, Johnny could do whatever he wanted to Morrissey. The thought of taking the plunge, thrusting hard and fast until Moz wouldn't walk right for a week was tempting; Moz was begging for it, demanding as he ever was to have things his way, just the way he liked it. But Johnny was the one in control, and even as Moz lifted his arse in expectation, telling Johnny to put plenty of lube on, he knew this wasn't how he wanted it to be. It had dissolved into a desperate, dirty tryst: no doubt because Moz was eager, and probably because it would be easier for Johnny to just fuck and run.

He was still scarily close to the edge of behaving in a way that he'd regret, just so that he didn't have to really be there. It wouldn't hurt so much in the morning that way: it would be a little easier to justify to himself. Just a roll in the sheets; a public service humping so that Misery Mozzery would cheer up for a bit. If he'd loved Morrissey any less, he might have approached it that way, but he didn't want easy. He wanted to feel the bittersweet sting of seeing Moz fall apart in his arms, as much as he wanted the satisfaction of letting him have it all.

Morrissey's heart was racing as he thought about how this would feel: perhaps there'd be a little pain, but he could probably handle that if Johnny enjoyed it. It was unlike the fantasies he usually had about Johnny, where there'd be untold tenderness, soft sighs, nervous touching. This was real, rough and needy, and it scared him as much as it excited him. _Was this why people were so obsessed with sex?_ Offering his body to be used as Johnny saw fit made him buzz with anticipation, but there was an undertow of other emotions: fear, anxiety. He could push all that down, though, if this is what Johnny wanted.

“Roll over,” Johnny said softly, and Moz looked at him quizzically as he flopped back against the pillows. Johnny stroked his side, settling in between Morrissey's legs again.

“I want to slow down, love,” he said quietly, and Morrissey seemed confused.

“Am I… Did I say something wrong?”

Johnny kissed his nose, then his eyebrows—ridiculous, wonderful eyebrows—then his lips.

“Not a thing, love.”

Johnny wanted to do this right, desperate to not screw it up by screwing Moz—god, that would be fun though, and maybe if this had happened years ago he would have been more impatient, been less careful, taken Moz in a dingy hotel room after too many post gig pints, had him on his hands and knees with a hand over Morrissey's mouth so that their band mates in the next room wouldn't hear Johnny fucking him without pity and without pause. He was glad he hadn't done that, though: he was sure Moz would resent him, maybe never trust him again; that would be taking advantage of how Moz felt about him just because he wanted to get off. He'd been tempted, though, and almost threw it all to the wind the nights that they danced together to "Barbarism Begins at Home". That had been the closest he'd ever gotten to coming onto Moz, and he'd done it in front of an audience of hundreds.

He really was insane.

“We don't have to do this at all, Johnny,” Morrissey said in a small voice. “We can just touch each other, if you'd like.”

That would be enough for Morrissey, but barely. He wanted everything that was possible right now, and if that was next to nothing, then so be it. He'd take whatever was offered as gratefully as he could.

“I want it more than just that, love. I just want to savour it. It would be selfish if I just—”

“Take me and use me then throw me away?”

There was an edge to Morrissey's words that worried him. Moz must know that this was going to be a onetime thing, once in a lifetime: he was in love, not a fool. Or perhaps it was a distrust for sex in general: that it was always about one person taking and the other giving, but one person would get more out of it.

Johnny didn’t want to just use him. He wanted to give Morrissey all of himself.

“It means too much to me to do that, Mozzer.”

Morrissey looked at him, measuring the words to see if they still held weight now that they were both naked, judgement clouded by the blood rushing between their legs. Johnny stared earnestly back: Morrissey was a minefield, but Johnny knew self-preservation when he saw it. Moz didn't want to get tricked: didn't want to offer himself only to be let down.

Johnny kissed him again, then lay with their foreheads touching, speaking softly.

“I'm gonna show you how I feel about you. You've just got to trust me.”

Morrissey nodded. Johnny was telling the truth: he hadn't decided to plough onwards, fucking him senseless when he'd been offered the chance. It wasn't exactly a test—he’d pushed a little too much—but if it was, Johnny had passed with flying colours.

“I trust you, Johnny.”

“Good,” Johnny whispered, his lips ghosting across Morrissey's cheek and whispering at his ear. “Because I want to make love with you.”

He never should have doubted that Johnny would be wonderful about this. He was wonderful about everything, always. But then Morrissey remembered something, and his heart sunk.

“I don't have a…”

Johnny stared at him as he gestured his hands, trying to mime rather than use the word.

“A what, Mozzer?”

Must he really spell it out?

“A condom.”

Johnny sighed.

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m sorry, if I’d known this was going to happen…”

Johnny sighed again, thinking for a moment.

“Have you been tested?”

Morrissey nodded fiercely.

“Have you?”

“Yeah. I went last year, just to be on the safe side.”

They stared at each other. Why did things always have to be so complicated for them?

“If you're okay with this, then I am too, Moz,” Johnny said. Morrissey didn’t answer, kissing Johnny before anything else could stop them.

 _This is still reckless,_ Johnny thought, rocking his hips gently and brushing his cock over Morrissey's, growing so hard that it was painful. _This is still dangerous, irresponsible, stupid. This is still cheating._

_Don’t think about her. Whatever you do, don’t think about her._

It was easy once Morrissey’s body moved with his own as they kissed, Johnny slipping further down between the older man's legs. Soon.

When the pressure had gotten almost unbearable again, Morrissey slid a hand down to grasp Johnny's cock.

“Now, Johnny.”

Johnny felt a tingle as he poured copious amounts of lube on the tip of his cock, coating it liberally and trying to calm his heart. He reached for a pillow and propped it under Morrissey's arse so that he was lifted slightly off the bed, head against the pillows near the headboard.

“Might help a little,” he said, gripping Morrissey's hip with one hand, another one lining up his cock. Morrissey nodded, eyes closed.

 _He's afraid,_ thought Johnny. _The bravest man I know is frightened that I'm going to hurt him._

“Look at me, love,” he said, squeezing Morrissey's hip, stroking it gently. “I'm going to make this good for you.”

Morrissey lifted his knees and wrapped his calves around Johnny's lower back, his hands drifting to rub his sides.

“I believe you,” he whispered, and then Johnny shifted forwards, his cock starting to press at the entrance to Morrissey's body. This was it.

“It's okay, Moz. Just breathe.”

Morrissey let out the breath he hadn't known he was holding, and Johnny's pressing paid off. Morrissey's body was opening around him, taking him in. There was a pull forwards and a push back, as muscles relaxed to let Johnny force himself deeper.

“Oh god, Mozzer,” Johnny whispered, watching pain and pleasure skitter across Morrissey's face. “Is this okay, baby?”

Morrissey gasped, nodding, the feeling growing more and more intense as Johnny shifted forward, burying himself deeper.

“It's good. I can feel you,” Morrissey whimpered as Johnny's hand closed around his cock, tugging it gently. He tightened his legs around Johnny's back, relishing in the strangeness of the sensation of Johnny sliding in to the hilt. “Oh Johnny, I can feel all of you.”

“Yeah,” said Johnny, his voice thick as he began to thrust as slowly as he could. The vice-like tightness around him made sweat break out on his skin, eyes on Morrissey's face, watching in awe as a hundred micro-expressions flickered through: Morrissey's jaw tensing and his eyelashes fluttering as he stared up at Johnny lovingly.

Johnny shifted the hand on Morrissey's hip, pulling gently to rock Moz's arse rock back into his lap.

“Fucking hell, Moz. You feel incredible.”

Morrissey's eyes were bright, teeth on his bottom lip as he tried to keep from moaning. He felt every tiny movement of Johnny's hips, felt every little slide inside him. It was more than he ever could have imagined, and he'd imagined this every night for the past five years. Johnny's face was set in concentration, and when Morrissey leaned to kiss him, pulling Johnny down closer so that he was bent over, no longer upright on his knees, his legs sliding so that he was thrusting down, he moaned softly, hungrily.

“Don't wanna hurt you, Moz,” he said against Morrissey's lips.

“You can move faster, Johnny. All I need is for you to move.”

Johnny's hips sped up, and he let go of Morrissey's cock, leaning on his forearm to concentrate as he added a little kick at the end of each thrust, aiming for that place that had made Moz twitch and writhe with pleasure. God, this was ridiculously good: letting the sense of animal urgency take him over as he moved with a little more strength, branding himself on Moz's body, claiming it as his own. He felt his heart swelling at the sight of Moz's face below him, written with joy as his facade of control slipped, mouth opening to moan.

“Yes, love. I want to make you sing, baby.”

A little faster, and a little harder, and Johnny had Moz whining his name, over and over, louder and louder. It was utterly spectacular, hearing and seeing the results of his handiwork, even as the pleasure of being inside, moving like this, racked his own body.

“Johnny,” Moz whispered, voice scratchy, his fingernails digging in to Johnny's skin as he held on for dear life. “Oh, my Johnny.”

Johnny could do this for hours, and that was the plan. He wasn't going to let the pleasure send him over the edge yet: he'd only come once Morrissey reached his peak, too. He was a selfless man in that regard, even though thoughts of his beautiful wife were cast aside, his whole world compressed into just him and Moz, Moz and him. This had nothing to do with loving her: Johnny might as well have had separate hearts, one for Angie and one for Moz. That's the only way he could justify this to himself: the rhythmic pounding of his hips unravelling the tight laced man before him, cheeks flushed and head rolling on the pillow. He was doing this, and it was like coming home.

He had to keep the guilt from creeping in, so he fell forwards, chest pressed against Morrissey's, their whole bodies swaying with momentum.

“Kiss me,” Johnny said, and it was begging more than anything. It said, _stop me from thinking._

Morrissey was stupid with feeling, but he still understood what Johnny needed.

Their mouths melded together, moans vibrating through. Morrissey was glad he'd waited to do this with Johnny. Johnny was tender, passionate, so, so giving, and only someone who loved him would be this kind to him. There was no pity in the way Johnny kissed him: he needed this just as much as Morrissey did. It meant just as much, and it meant the world to Morrissey, like life was being breathed into him, like his heart was being re-started after all these years. It was the last way that Johnny could save him, and for the first time in his life, he felt worthy of this. He deserved this.

“Morrissey,” Johnny whispered, letting his face press into that long, pale neck, its tendons tight and vibrating with the noise Morrissey was making, “I- I love you.”

Morrissey found himself crying at that, even as Johnny's hips rolled, plunging in great strokes inside him. God, of course he'd cry during sex. That'd be just like him.

“I love you too, Johnny”, he said, and Johnny must have noticed the way Morrissey's voice wavered, because he slowed to a crawl, slipping his arms under Morrissey's shoulders to hold him, kissing the tears off his face.

"I love you," Johnny said again firmly, like he needed to get used to saying it, as if it were a secret he'd kept from himself. "You have no idea how long I wanted to show you, baby."

"Too long," whispered Morrissey, and his hands clawed on Johnny's shoulders when Johnny twisted his hips, thrusting with abandon. They kept going like that—Johnny taken over and letting his body move like it wanted to, then reining himself back in, muttering "Not yet, Moz" as he thrust slowly, evenly, trying to get his breathing to even out and his heart to slow down, willing Moz to kiss him and always getting what he wanted.

Morrissey was going mad with the way Johnny would carry them towards the edge, only to step back at the last second. It had him brimming with emotion: love, frustration, ecstasy, gratitude and greed.

"More, Johnny," he wailed, and he barely recognised his voice, losing all his composure as Johnny moved ruthlessly, groaning and muttering like a man possessed, their sweat-slicked bodies sliding against each other.

"You're beautiful, Moz. You're so bloody beautiful like this."

And Morrissey felt beautiful, Johnny's eyes hooded, his voice growing husky, all because of him. All because of the way his body responded: let Johnny pierce right to the root of him, taking him in and loving every little bit of it.

He couldn't respond with anything other than a kiss, mouth moving desperately, trying to tell Johnny _thank you for seeing me as I want to be seen._

Johnny kept moving to silence the thoughts running around his head. What if he and Moz just ran away together—disappeared with the royalties, moved to a country where it didn't rain, where they could be free to spend all day and all night in bed, wringing all the pleasure they could ever crave from each other? What if they broke up The Smiths, cut their losses and lived the rest of their lives like this?

That could never happen, and he knew it. He didn't want to leave Angie: she was the love of his life. It was unfair, a cosmic joke without a punch line, that Johnny just happened to have two soul mates. He'd rather be alone than feel himself split in two like this; and with that, he promised himself that he'd never do this again. This would be the first and last time he'd make love to anyone but his wife, and if she decided she didn't want to spend her life with him, then he'd be alone forever. He didn't deserve the love of these two, exceptional people, but he had to show Moz what he meant just once. He owed him that much.

This was going on forever, and though Johnny was exhausted, muscles tightened from use, and Moz was babbling incoherently below him, he didn't want to stop. Every time it seemed like Moz was getting close to coming, Johnny would grip his fingers around the base of Moz's cock, still his hips, kissing him reassuringly even as Moz started to sob—it was getting that intense now, going on for so long that they were both dripping with sweat, trembling, groaning with every thrust.

"I never want to stop, Moz," he said, face buried in Morrissey's lovely neck again, just below his earlobe, as Moz's chest heaved beneath him, his fingers scratching—no doubt leaving marks that Johnny would have to explain later. "I want to do this forever."

"Oh Johnny," Moz said, panting and whining as Johnny rolled his hips, one-two-three thrusts in quick succession of increasing hardness, "Please don't stop."

How long they did this for, neither could tell, but as he clutched at Johnny, holding him close and chanting his name like an incantation, Morrissey thought he heard a bird call. He took his eyes off his lover for a moment, and saw the sky was starting to lighten, and then everything went blurry as he cried, kissing Johnny to distract himself from the knowledge that this would all soon be over. All of it. It had been coming for a long time. This was the beginning of a goodbye. He knew it now, and it almost made him want to give up.

"Stay with me, baby," Johnny said, sensing the anxiety brewing in Morrissey's mind and kissing along his jaw, rocking slowly and holding him tightly. "I'm right here, love."

And he was: Johnny was all he could see, all he could feel, his tongue in his mouth, his arms around him, his cock inside him, Morrissey's own cock caught between them, neglected but twitching with nerves as Johnny stimulated that spot in his core. He was going to come without even being touched, he knew that; if only Johnny's stamina weren't keeping his climax at bay. Morrissey wasn't sure if he hated Johnny for holding him back from the brink, or if he loved him ten times more.

He was getting close, though, he knew that much, and Johnny's staccato beat, no longer smooth and fluid, told him that he wasn't the only one. Johnny stared at him, eyes blown with wonder.

"I want us to come together, Mozzer," he whispered, stopping his hips entirely and gripping Morrissey's face, kissing him quickly, hard, speaking like this was the most important thing he'd ever said.

"I think—" Morrissey's breathing hitched as his body clenched unwillingly, making Johnny hiss with the tension. "I'm almost there, Johnny. Just a little more."

He was still gasping with tears, even as Johnny moved once more, teeth biting at his neck, leaving a mark. _You're mine,_ it said. _You're all mine._

Johnny sped up, slowed down again, then finally kept the pace going, quicker and quicker, breath coming ragged between them as he kissed Morrissey, foreheads pressed together, fingers stroking Morrissey's hair, his face.

"Love you, Moz," he murmured, his hips moving jerkily and tears welling in his eyes. "Love you."

Morrissey nodded, and he could feel himself starting to drift from his body even as he was being pulled inwards.

Johnny was groaning, trying to keep a beat with his hips but finding himself spiralling, getting ready to fall over the edge. It was the purest thing he'd ever felt: the singularity of their joint orgasm rushing to meet them, and Johnny could see it in Moz's face, that open, honest expression of love, mouthing Johnny's name even as tears rolled down his face—god this man was sweet, so sensitive that Johnny wanted to protect him from harm, wanted to carve "MOZ" into his arm, _stay on my arm, you little charmer..._

"Morrissey," he said, and now he was just seconds away from it all, the pressure in his loins starting to ripple throughout his body, setting his senses alight.

Morrissey couldn't answer—no clever retorts this time, just tears fogging up his vision and his climax fogging his brain. It was perfection, so simple yet so complex as stars started to pop up behind his eyes, and he began to cry out as he reached the cusp of his self-control.

"Johnny, I'm—"

He didn't get to finish. Johnny thrust a few more times, tension coiling then finally unwinding as Morrissey clenched around him, head shaking and back arching as he came, hard, the noises coming from his mouth harsh and raw, his thoughts soaring away. The extra tightness made Johnny shout, and he was falling forwards, collapsing against Moz, his hips bucking as he rode out the onslaught of pleasure.

"Oh Moz," Johnny groaned as he kept coming, eking out the last vestiges of the high. Morrissey's cock was flowing, his come sticky and tart between them, and Johnny felt his energy sap, even as his skin zapped with head to toe tingles.

It was like they'd floated off the bed, out of their own bodies and into each other's, and now they were gravitating back, keeping parts of themselves but leaving other bits behind.

They lay together, panting, their bodies pulsing and racked. Johnny didn't pull out. He couldn’t have if he tried: Morrissey’s legs were still locked around him, his arm encircling them. He was clinging to Johnny as if he were scared of losing him.

Johnny kissed him, tired and languid in a way that made Morrissey's heart hurt. He kissed back gently, his breathing returning back to normal even as his pulse still shuddered.

"Thank you," Morrissey whispered, and Johnny cried, finally, like he knew he would, like he didn't want to, his shoulders trembling as Moz stroked them.

"God Moz," he said, tears falling from his eyes—he hadn't cried since he was a child. "Look what you've bloody done to me."

Moz laughed softly, his own face damp. How silly and romantic that they'd both cry about this: Morrissey didn't feel any shame in it, only warmth for Johnny, that made him brush his face free of tears, rocking him gently.

“It was good, wasn't it?”

Johnny shook his head, sniffing, and rested his cheek on Morrissey's chest.

“Better than good. Better than anything. What about you?”

Morrissey thought for a moment. Was there any way he could put that into words? It seemed like to do so would be an oversimplification of something beyond language.

“I don't know how to describe it. It made me feel so alive, but more. As if we were the first and last things to exist. It was like... Dying in reverse.”

Johnny smiled, his fingertips skimming the bruised skin on Morrissey's neck. _I did that. I was there._

“That's one way to put it.”

“I’m sorry that wasn’t very poetic. Something seems to have happened to my brain.”

Johnny kissed the love-bite on Morrissey’s neck softly.

“That was beautiful. You’re beautiful, Mozzer.”

Johnny felt alive. He felt whole, like this is where he’d meant to be all along. If only he could stay: never let go of this feeling. He was going to lose it so soon, and that made his heart swell to breaking point.

When Johnny finally slipped out him, the sweat on their bodies had long since cooled. He rolled over, a small smile on his face as Morrissey reached for tissues to clean both their bodies off.

“Stay a little while, my love,” Morrissey murmured. He wanted to find some way of convincing Johnny to never leave him, his sense of hopelessness fractured by the obvious love Johnny felt for him. They'd just made love, and it was epic, perfect, earth-shaking and life changing. But now he was tired, worn out with sleep on his mind. Johnny should stay: they'd done enough for now, and anyone would forgive them the rest. He seemed to agree: Johnny pulled the blankets around them, tangling their limbs together again.

“Not going anywhere,” Johnny said, and he meant it for the moment. The guilt was gone—he knew it would be back soon, a hundred times worse when he realised what he'd done: given all of himself to someone he wasn't married to—in another universe, he'd take Moz up on the offer, _M.A.R.R.y_ him, having now initiated him so thoroughly—but for the moment, he wanted to sleep. Just rest, bask in the afterglow and in Morrissey's embrace.

Morrissey wrapped his arms around him, his head tucked under Johnny's chin. This is where he belonged, even if only for a time. He felt Johnny's lips brushing his temple, his fingers dancing up and down the line of his spine, his breath dancing across Morrissey's hair.

“I meant what I said,” Morrissey whispered, and he felt Johnny smile against him as he pressed a kiss on his forehead.

“I meant it too. Don’t ever forget that.”

He’d never forget: how Johnny had touched him, how he’d made him feel. How it had just been the two of them, the way it was supposed to be.

“I'm yours,” Moz kept whispering, even as they dropped off to sleep, hands linked together. “I'm all yours.”

That was the last thing Johnny heard, light starting to spill into the room—golden, threatening to break the spell, and he squeezed Moz's hand and whispered “Always, Moz.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has read, commented, or given this kudos to date. Please continue doing so because that validation gives me the warm 'n' fuzzies.


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